Berger swivelled back and forth in his office chair. ‘Incriminating files, what do they indicate exactly?’
‘I’d really prefer not to go into detail at this moment. Besides I can’t,’ Joshua brusquely said. ‘It’s too gruesome. But what I can say is that the files indicate that Minister Lombard is actively involved in a paedophile network that, as far as we can presently tell, reaches deep into the heart of the Dutch embassy in Kabul.’
His last words definitely hit a nerve. Joshua had managed to arouse Berger’s interest. Waiting to play your trump card often worked wonders. Berger sat up even straighter behind his desk.
‘As I said, detective, nothing is impossible. A new diplomatic officer was recently posted here from Kabul. If what you are saying ends up being true, it is not good. Not good at all. We have to uphold a high standard overseas. On the phone your boss Tomasoa mentioned a possible connection between Lombard and Lavrov. Can you tell me anything more about that?’
‘We interrogated a key witness who was on AtlasNet’s payroll. His statement suggests that Lavrov bribed businessmen and politicians to acquire the concession in the Netherlands to build Europe’s largest gas storage facility.’
‘So this is about more than the minister? If I understand you correctly?’
‘Minister Lombard is our priority. But once he starts talking, we have no doubt others will be named and Lavrov will certainly be among them.’
‘And who is this key witness, if I may ask?’
Joshua thought for a moment. He’d agreed with Tomasoa to leave the events surrounding Kovalev’s death out of it for now. ‘I’m presently not at liberty to say because of security reasons.’
Berger got up and walked to the window, where he pulled up the blinds. The smog seemed even thicker than earlier. ‘This misery just continues,’ he said, disheartened. ‘Forest fires outside the city. That’s what the north-easterly wind brings us these days: plenty of filth.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘Your boss also told me that the doctor involved in the boy’s case was murdered.’
‘Danielle Bernson.’ Joshua said her name as if he still couldn’t believe it himself. ‘Apparently they suspected she knew too much. The bullets came from a Zastava that was later found on a young Russian who died in a car accident in Amsterdam. Besides the Zastava, the man was wearing a locket. With a photo of three men. One we’ve identified as Arseni Vakurov. Another as Valentin Lavrov.’
The look on Berger’s face suggested he’d really dropped a bombshell this time.
Joshua continued. ‘There are more than enough indications that Lavrov is somehow involved in the whole affair, Mr Berger. But, as I already said, at this moment the minister is our priority.’
Berger nodded approvingly. ‘I also understand you received unexpected assistance?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A journalist who is looking into this case.’
‘You mean Farah Hafez?’
‘Your boss did not mention her name. Farah Hafez, you say?’ Joshua immediately regretted his impulsive reaction. ‘She works for the AND,’ he said, regaining his self-control.
‘How did she get involved in this case?’
‘Personal motives. She was the first to have contact with the Afghan boy when he was brought into the hospital. She felt drawn to him, so she started to investigate the case. She was also the one who gave us Lombard’s driver.’
‘So she knows about the damaging material you have on Lombard.’
‘We’ve agreed she won’t publish anything until Lombard is arrested.’
‘And she is also aware of the possible connections with Lavrov?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Berger clasped his hands together, rested his chin on them and looked at Joshua intently.
‘I take this seriously, detective. Very seriously. Such a sensitive case with so many implications. I’m glad you shared the details with me. I know what I have to do now. I am going to exert my influence to have the Public Prosecutor file a formal request for legal assistance as quickly as possible and I am going to informally share with the authorities what they can expect.’ He stood up demonstratively, as if to indicate that as far as he was concerned, the conversation had come to an end.
‘We are going to get to the bottom of this,’ Berger said, escorting Joshua to the door as politely as he’d invited him to take a seat earlier. In the hall he gave Joshua the unsolicited advice to visit a museum and get a feel for the city, after which he said, undoubtedly to reassure him, ‘I will be in touch,’ and then he returned to his office and shut the heavy door behind him.
Joshua looked back at the stately building displaying the Dutch coat of arms and wished he was back in the smelly Corolla alongside his partner Diba. Anything rather than being here alone in this immense city of millions surrounded by uncertainty, doubt and a haze of windblown ash.
6
Moscow’s streets were clogged with cars, all seemingly intent on thwarting Anya Kozlova’s efforts to steer her dull yellow Skoda to Ulitsa Vorontsovo Pole where the Moskva Gazeta had its offices.
‘We’re here for Lavrov. Where do the terrorist bombings and the security services come in?’ Farah asked while feverishly rummaging around in her handbag for more painkillers.
‘There are fresh elections in a year’s time,’ Paul said. ‘And the president is seeking re-election. So he creates mayhem.’
‘Right, by the looks of it he’s not the only one,’ Farah said with a brief glance at Anya who yanked angrily at the wheel, accelerated, braked again, and appeared to be wishing all Russian drivers a single ticket to hell. ‘And why would a president create chaos? Doesn’t that work against him?’
‘He’s not supposed to be seen as the instigator, but as the one combatting it.’
‘I still don’t see the point. Surely you’re not going to have buildings blown up by supposed terrorists if it means killing innocent civilians?’
‘If you believe the end justifies the means, then that’s exactly what you do,’ Anya yelled while crossing a chaotic junction with her hand glued to the horn. ‘In that case you blow up a building and blame the Chechens. And you don’t get public opinion on your side unless lots of civilians die!’
In the meantime cars kept approaching from all sides so the Skoda suddenly came to a complete standstill.
‘Violence is part and parcel of Russian culture,’ Paul said. ‘You can’t seize power here without using force.’
‘And your horn!’ Anya said furiously as she abruptly slipped between two oncoming cars and manoeuvred the Skoda perilously close around a bus full of stunned tourists before pulling into a side street, where she parked so swiftly that the contents of Farah’s handbag went flying through the car and Paul banged his head against the windscreen. ‘We’re here.’
The Moskva Gazeta was located on the second floor of a grey, five-storey building. In the lobby, which was full of campaign posters in Cyrillic print, a man was waiting for them with his arms open wide. With his full beard and convivial nature, Roman Jankovski looked like a younger version of Tevye, the Jewish milkman from Anatevka, the Russian village in Fiddler on the Roof. The editor-in-chief hugged Paul like a prodigal son before kissing Farah on the hand with an unexpected flourish.
‘Welcome, Farah. Paul has told me a lot about you,’ he said courteously. ‘And from now on I’ll believe every word he says. What else can I do? He saved my life last night!’ His laughter thundered through the lobby. Given the enthusiasm with which he slapped himself on the thigh, Farah half expected him to break into a Cossack dance. But instead Roman took her graciously by the arm and escorted them down a drab corridor that called to mind an old school with high ceilings and spiderwebs in the corners. Through the tall windows she saw Moskva Gazeta journalists busily conferring with one another.
‘Moscow is experiencing another wave of terror,’ a serious-looking Roman said to explain the buzz of activity in the offices.
‘I understand it isn’t alway
s entirely clear who the terrorists are,’ Farah replied.
‘Which makes it all the more worrying.’
They passed a large glass display case containing portraits of young men and women, a Macintosh Classic computer, a purple scarf with dark-red bloodstains, a Christmas card from Bill Clinton and a well-preserved copy of the book Weapons and Fighting Arts of the Indonesian Archipelago.
‘Who’s the martial arts fan here?’ asked Farah, who’d halted in front of the display case, pleasantly surprised at what she saw.
‘She was.’ Roman pointed to the photo of a young woman. ‘Elena Vertinski.’
‘Was?’
‘This is our remembrance corner. Our modest mausoleum. These are photos of the Moskva Gazeta journalists murdered over the past few years. Elena was working on a large-scale investigation into the arms trade and money laundering. She stumbled across evidence that implicated the Russian security services. Shortly after, she became seriously ill. The doctors said she was suffering from a rare allergy. Three days later she was dead. Nobody was allowed to see her medical records. Not even her family. We suspect she was poisoned.’
‘And who’s that?’ Farah asked, pointing to a handsome man with a vague resemblance to Joshua Calvino.
‘Semyon Domnikov,’ Roman said. ‘He was a freelancer. Gunned down after he penned a piece about a Russian commander who was suspected of having summarily executed all the male inhabitants of a Chechen village.’ He gave her an apologetic look. ‘But please excuse me. Here I am welcoming you and the first thing I do is regale you with tales of death.’
‘Sounds like a Russian to me,’ Anya grunted.
‘Sounds like a bad host,’ Roman said with a smile, offering Farah his arm again and ushering her into his office.
‘I’ve come close to shutting down the Moskva Gazeta,’ Roman said after the four of them sat down at a large oval table. Family photographs adorned the walls alongside black-and-white snaps of the editor with a variety of statesmen, including Bill Clinton and Mikhail Gorbachev. ‘But Anya and her colleagues have managed to convince me that if we shut the paper down, there’ll be nobody to do our job. We’re the last of the Russian free press Mohicans.’
Meanwhile he handed around some cups. Anya brandished a thermos flask of coffee.
‘Or do you guys fancy something stronger?’
‘Water,’ Farah said. ‘With an aspirin, if you have one.’
Anya popped out and returned with a large glass of water and a strip of aspirin.
‘What I still don’t get, to be honest,’ Farah said, after she’d drained the contents of the glass in a couple of gulps along with three aspirin, ‘is that your journalists are threatened or murdered as soon as they stick their noses in too deep, and yet Moskva Gazeta is allowed to carry on. How do you explain that?’
Roman pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. It showed a smartly suited man demonstratively reading a copy of the Moskva Gazeta together with Potanin. ‘Our main financial backer, Vasili Nevinny, with our beloved president,’ he said with a liberal dose of irony. ‘However illogical it may sound, Farah, the continued existence of our paper is essentially a PR matter for the men at the Kremlin. “Look,” they say to their foreign detractors, “those rebellious boys and girls at the Moskva Gazeta can publish whatever they want. And yet you claim we don’t have press freedom here in Russia?” ’
‘Bizarre,’ Farah said.
‘It is indeed. But there’s another reason, an equally bizarre one,’ Roman said. ‘Our critical reporting inadvertently informs those very same figures at the Kremlin what the man in the street really thinks about them. You can bet the Moskva Gazeta is read by the government’s most powerful advisors and by the siloviki, the FSB guys. Most of the information they receive from their own agents is wide of the mark. We tell them what’s really going on in society. Let me tell you a secret.’ Grinning broadly, Roman leaned across the table towards Farah and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘We’re actually on the FSB’s payroll.’ His roaring laughter filled the room.
‘Roman will soon be awarded a medal by our president to mark his twelve-and-a-half years in the business,’ Anya said with a chuckle.
‘Congratulations,’ Farah said, ‘but I’m sure that’s not why you invited us here.’
‘True.’ Roman looked at Paul. ‘What have you told her?’
‘Not much,’ Paul replied.
‘Right. As you may already know, Farah, in recent years Potanin has been trying to curb the power of the rich industrialists who oppose him. The most prominent among them was Aleksandr Zyuganov. Three years ago, after a show trial for tax evasion and fraud, he was sent to a Siberian labour camp. All the shares in Zyuganov’s energy company NovaMost were transferred to the then newly founded AtlasNet, which was headed by the up-and-coming Valentin Lavrov. Are you still with me?’
‘I think so,’ Farah said. She noticed that her headache was finally beginning to subside. ‘Sounds like a brilliant plan to me. You eliminate your most powerful opponent and acquire a rich ally in the process. I bet Lavrov reckons his president is a pretty good guy?’
‘He and Lavrov get on like a house on fire,’ Roman responded. ‘That’s why we started looking into this diversion of stocks. We kept a very low profile and the progress was slow. It’s a diffuse network, but not long ago we stumbled across documents proving that while the president passed more than half of those shares to Lavrov at the time, he kept more than forty-five per cent for himself.’
‘In other words,’ Farah said in disbelief, ‘your president not only eliminates his opponents, but he also lines his pockets with their shares.’ She looked sharply at Roman Jankovski. ‘Would you guys publish that?’
‘Place our findings next to what I just told you about Elena Vertinski, Semyon Domnikov and the other murdered journalists and you’ll understand that we’ve got a dilemma. And that’s exactly why I’ve asked you and Paul to come here.’
‘You’ve got incriminating documents that may be perceived as a danger to the state,’ Farah concluded. ‘So now you’re looking for a foreign paper to publish them, because it would be too dangerous for you. Am I right?’
Roman nodded solemnly. ‘In our line of work you’ve got to hope for the best, but with Lavrov, and even more so Potanin, definitely be prepared for the worst. Add our findings to Paul’s recent discovery – the murky deals that Lavrov appears to have concluded behind the scenes with members of the South African government in exchange for concessions for the expansion of his mining corporations. Then add all this to the trail that takes us from the Afghan boy via your minister, perhaps indirectly, to AtlasNet. These three cases really require the intervention of Interpol specialists. Then again, if we join forces and get to the bottom of this fiendishly complicated case, we journalists will be doing the world a damn good service, right? But the question is: are we prepared to go that far? Are we up for it?’
‘You’re forgetting a fourth point,’ Anya said. ‘AtlasNet has a monopoly on gas supplies. For years now it’s been using gas as a means of blackmail. Former Eastern bloc countries that are getting too chummy with the West suddenly have their gas cut off. They’re even going as far as sabotaging attempts by EU nations to tap into alternative energy sources. Nicolas Anglade was investigating those practices. According to your media, he committed suicide after files containing indecent images of children were found on his computer.
‘But strangely enough, those files were found on his home computer. However obsessive paedophiles may be, they’ll think ten times before they download films and photos at home, where their wife and children or other housemates could come across them. Someone planted those files in Anglade’s computer and made sure they were discovered. And you can certainly ask yourself if he really committed suicide.’
Each word seemed to affirm Farah’s premonition of the night before. The treacherous complexity of the case was increasing by the hour and wrapping its tentacles ever tighter around her. She felt apprehe
nsive. ‘We’ll have to consult our editor-in-chief,’ she said in a hoarse voice. ‘There are quite a few security risks involved with this, and that’s putting it mildly.’
‘That’s another thing I’d like to talk to you about,’ Roman said. ‘I understand that you’ve asked Lavrov to be the guest editor of your special art edition.’ There was a moment’s silence in the room. Roman Jankovski rubbed his beard. ‘Look, there’s no doubt Lavrov already knows a lot more about you than you’ll ever find out about him. It’s a mistake to think you could get anywhere near him or catch him saying something incriminating in this way.’
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘There isn’t one. It would be unwise to withdraw at this stage. Make the supplement. But leave out the critical questions. Don’t act the spy. Once the supplement is finished, you should see it as a done deal. When we come out with our evidence later, you can always say that while working on the supplement you stumbled across some facts that you went on to investigate further. In reality, it’s the other way around, but here in Russia the facts are falsified on a daily basis, so why wouldn’t you do the same for once?’
At that moment a young woman came in. She said something in Russian to Roman before switching on the large television in the corner of the room. A stocky man in a grey suit appeared on the screen. He held a large shiny bag in his hands and addressed the viewers in a condescending tone.
‘The mayor of Moscow,’ Paul clarified. ‘He says they’ve discovered that the incident last night, in the building where Anya and I discovered the bags, wasn’t an act of terrorism, but an exercise. The bags weren’t filled with RDX.’
‘Then what do they claim it was?’ asked Farah, watching the mayor triumphantly holding up the bags in front of the camera.
‘Sugar!’ Anya said with a sardonic smile.
7
As if the End of Days was nearing, Anya Kozlova sped through Moscow towards the Pushkin Museum. Their meeting at the Moskva Gazeta had taken up more time than expected. Paul and Farah had needed to consult at length with their editor in the Netherlands.
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